I Don’t Want to Be a Journalist Anymore

This isn’t about headlines, it’s about staying human

THERE WAS A TIME I REALLY thought I could be a journalist.

So I studied them. The way they carried themselves, the way they measured their words, the calm they wore even when the world was burning.

I tried to learn their voice, thinking that was the way to give you the most useful version of me.

Because I wanted to give you the best of me. The best of my stories. The strongest version of of what it means to be Ukrainian.

But eventually, something broke.

And I realized that I don’t want to be a journalist anymore.

Because what’s happening here… it isn’t news.

You, my friend, you don’t need another person reporting the war to you. You have the best journalists in the world bringing the news about Ukraine with incredible mastery, just a click away from your screen.

You probably get the headlines before I do. Power cuts and damaged cell towers often make us the last ones to know our own news.

You see the analysis, the satellite images, the maps. You’re informed. You’re paying attention.

But none of that tells you what it feels like.

None of that tells you what this war does to a spirit.

To the sound people make when they’re pretending not to be afraid.

To the silence in the dark stairwells when everyone is listening for something that might never come.

To the way a mother looks at her child when the sirens start again.

To the way you try to memorize someone’s face, just in case it’s the last time.

To the way children learn not to ask questions they once did, or the feeling of hearing birds and wondering if it’s safe to believe in beauty again.

That’s why I stopped pretending. That’s why I gave up the idea of being objective, or composed, or balanced. Because I’m not outside the story.

I’m inside it. Inside the ache, the silence, the question that keeps waking me up so many nights, “How much more are we expected to lose?”

It’s strange to say, but in some way, I am the story.

The story I forget I’m living, because I have a life to hold on to. A family to protect. A country to fight for. A reason to stay whole.

I look in the mirror and I don’t see the story I am. But I need to look into my own eyes and understand myself.

To make sense of what I’m feeling, even when I don’t know what it is.

Even if i insist on hiding from myself what it is.

To face the suffering I pretend I don’t carry, because I’m afraid it might hurt more if I admit it.

But I have to face it. My fears. My traumas.

Myself.

And what’s way what I write here couldn’t never be considered news. As I said weeks ago, this is not a newsletter.

It’s what’s left of me. And perhaps it’s what’s left of you, too.

A space where we still attempt to be human. Together.

At some point, I understood that my value isn’t about sharing information.

Value is honesty.

It’s what happens when someone dares to speak without armor.

When the voice isn’t polished, but real. When the writing doesn’t explain, but reaches

Every time I sit down and speak from the place that still hurts, you write back.

You tell me that you cried. That you held your grandchildren a little longer that day.

That my words helped you feel something you were afraid you’d lost.

That’s when I know I made the right choice.

Because I’m not here to explain Ukraine. I’m here to remind you that you’re still human.

This is not a project. This is not a performance.

This is a shelter.

For every person who still wants to believe that good exists.

For every soul who still thinks hope is worth the risk. For everyone who looks at the headlines and whispers, “This can’t be who we are.”

You’re right. It’s not.

And if my voice does anything at all, I hope it gives you permission.

Permission to feel. To cry. To stay soft.

To remember that kindness isn’t weakness.

That love is not naïve.

That feeling deeply is not something to hide, but the only way to survive.

So no. I’m not a journalist.

I’m just a man in the middle of a war, speaking with his whole heart.

Trying to meet you where your heart still listens.

And if you feel anything when you read me, I hope with all my soul that you’ve found your way back to the best part of yourself, too.

Because that’s how you make me feel every time you write back.

And maybe that’s enough.

🇺🇦

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📖 “The Divine Comedian: Ukraine’s Journey Through Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise” is more than my first book: it’s Ukraine, seen from inside the fire, and the hope that refuses to die. Download it for free (PDF & Kindle) and see what survival really looks like.